


I Appeal to Your Holy Name

by Adoxography



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Demonic Possession, M/M, Marcus Cries (shocking absolutely no one), ’Coughing Up Blood’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 21:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17495726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: Marcus finally finds Tomas again. Tomas is doing just as well as you might imagine.Written for the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: Coughing up Blood





	I Appeal to Your Holy Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sistermercury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistermercury/gifts).



Returning to Chicago, Marcus was shocked to find Saint Antony’s had not been bulldozed. It currently stood abandoned, save for (according to the locals) the occasional squatter or groups of teens looking for a quiet place to get stoned or hook up. He supposed it was safer than a back alley or a park and could not find it in his heart to begrudge them. If he’d grown up differently, he, too, may have found sex in a ruined church an illicit thrill of his own. 

Tomas would not have approved.   _ Tomas… _ even his name made something behind his ribs ache, like it would tear itself from his chest. If he did not find him inside, Marcus had half a mind to take the next flight to Rome and storm the Vatican itself. 

It had been a mistake to leave him, a mistake to think that he would refrain from foolish self sacrifice, and even more foolish to think that Mouse would stop him. She and Tomas were two of a kind and twice as boneheaded together. Marcus had heard little of their exploits except what he could gather from demons he pressed for information; even less of that could be trusted--at least he prayed it could not be trusted--for it to be true was unthinkable. 

Marcus’ hands shook as he approached the old church, but steadied as he raised his gun and put a hand on the entrance, peering inside. If not for the soft flicker of candlelight under the altar, he would have missed the huddled figures entirely, too far away to be recognized by anything but gut instinct and his own pitiful hopes. 

If all was as he’d prayed, he would put the weapon away before entering. He was not so long from God’s embrace that he would commit sacrilege on His holy grounds, at least not without just cause. Tucking the gun back in his jacket, but keeping it in hand, he pushed the heavy door open just enough to squeeze inside, closing it behind himself with his heel. 

The upright figure at the altar turned his way and though the gloom (and his own failing eyesight) made it hard to make out the face, he was at least able to recognize her voice. 

“What the  _ hell _ are you doing here?” Mouse demanded. As Marcus stepped closer, he could see her face was twisted in fury, and under that, there was fear. 

Marcus let go of the gun and raised his hands. Keeping a walking pace down that aisle was like trying to saw off his own arm, but he grit his teeth and did it. He would not have her think he was the enemy, not now when it was almost impossible to tell friend from foe. 

She crouched between him and the bundle at her back, one covered by jackets and blankets, and surrounded by dripping candles. White wax ruining the carpet. 

“Is that him?” He could not keep his voice from cracking, not even after all this time. 

“Over there.” She pointed to the holy water font at her left, where the orange glow of the candles reflected off the water’s surface. 

“Of course.” He nodded and stooped before it, taking a palmful and swallowing. He raised his hands again and waited, and waited, and waited. Their eyes locked in a furious battle, hers full of mistrust, and his… he thought she might see his desperation. 

Finally, she stood and gestured to the bundle at her feet. “Be careful. I don’t know how much longer he can keep fighting.” 

Marcus was on his knees in an instant, bones jarring painfully on the floor, the rug doing nothing to cushion the stone underneath. He gathered Tomas into his arms and he no longer had the strength not to weep. 

“He wanted to take on  _ Belial  _ himself,” Mouse growled, arms crossed tightly across her chest, grasping her leather jacket so hard he could hear the fabric groan. 

Marcus’ head snapped up, but he was able to take a breath when she shook her head. “He does not battle the Devil. But he does fight a king of Hell and there was nothing I could do to prevent it,” said Mouse. 

Marcus’s tears fell on Tomas’ too pale face. He wiped stringy hair from a feverish forehead with hands that trembled; his lips pressed a kiss to his damp brow.  Even in sleep, Tomas’ bloodless lips were tight and twisted in pain. 

“You don’t have him chained?” 

Mouse shook her head. “He’s only woken up a few times, and even then, only for a minute or so. When he does, he’s himself, begging me to give him more time to destroy it.” 

Marcus peeled back one of Tomas’ lids; his irises were clouded milky white, but he still only had two. How long had he fought integration and won? Despite his anger, Marcus could not help the small swell of pride. 

“He hasn’t asked you to kill him?” Marcus feared the answer, but less than he might have knowing that Tomas still breathed. 

“He’s gotten so much stronger since Andrew Kim, but I’m afraid this time his confidence might have been misplaced.” 

Marcus clutched the body tighter to him, as if his arms alone could save Tomas from himself. “Only if he integrates,” Marcus growled through gritted teeth. 

“I didn’t think you cared,” Mouse shot back, her anger rising. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He forced himself to loosen his grip on Tomas for fear of hurting him. 

“You left him. How else was he supposed to take that. How else was  _ I _ supposed to take that?”

Marcus froze, his heart stopping in his chest. “What did you tell him?” 

“What he asked. What you should have told him before dragging him into this life.” Mouse towered over him, one of the few times she ever did, her rage making her seem even larger. 

“I couldn’t risk—“ 

“I don’t care about what happened between us, not anymore. It’s been too damn long and too much happened since for me to cry over you.” These were the words Marcus had expected to hear six months ago and he was shocked to find they did not lift the shadow of guilt from his heart; there was no absolution in a past forgotten but not forgiven. “But watching you do the exact same thing to him? Leaving me to clean up your mess? That’s just not right, Marcus.” 

“Why did you bring him here?” 

“It was the last thing I could think of that might bring him back, other than you, but there was no chance of that,” she accused, looking up at the altar. 

He had nothing to say to that. Instead, he ran his fingers along Tomas’ clammy cheek, the fever dropping to a frigid chill with no warning. Tomas shook in his arms. This was his fault. He dropped his head to rest his forehead to Tomas’, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Tomas’ mouth.

He yanked his head back when he tasted blood. Pressing his thumb on Tomas’ lower lip, he pulled it down and saw teeth stained pink. Fear knocked the air from him like a knife between his ribs. He pulled back Tomas’ eyelid again and saw the milky whiteness fading and his eyes beginning to water. 

Marcus beckoned to Mouse as he began to speak, “ _ God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I appeal to your holy name, humbly begging y—“  _

“Wait…” Tomas croaked, raising a trembling hand to the one on his cheek. 

“Tomas,” said Marcus, as if the name was torn from his lungs. He soothed Tomas’ cheek which was ice cold and feverish from one moment to the next. He pressed another kiss to his brow, damp with sweat and Marcus’ own tears. 

“I can destroy him. I’m…. I’m so close,” Tomas wheezed, his voice little more than soft breaths forced from his throat. Fresh blood flecked his lips. 

“You can’t,” Marcus insisted. “I can’t sit idly by.” 

Tomas’ cough was violent and wet, rattling his lungs and his ribs. There was blood and spittle on his hand when he drew it from his mouth and the mess dripped down his chin. Marcus wiped it away with his sleeve. 

“This time…” Tomas’ voice was weak and rattled like the loose phlegm in his throat. “This time you can’t stop me…” He smiled at Marcus and raised his hand, the unbloodied one, to his tear-stained cheek.

“I don’t know if this suits you,” Tomas mused, fingers running through Marcus’ untamed beard.

Marcus gasped, a sorry imitation of a laugh. “Survive this, and I’ll let you at a pair of clippers.”

Tomas nodded, his smile weak but still bright as anything Marcus had ever seen in the ruins of an abandoned church. “I’m going to win,” he promised, though it sounded so desperate coming from those bloody lips. “I need you to believe that, believe in me.”

“I will,” Marcus promised, “I do,” he swore, “I always have,” he confessed.

Tomas’ eyes shut again, but there was no peace to be found in his unconsciousness. He fought an invisible battle with burdens no one could shoulder for him.

Mouse knelt beside them, a damp rag in hand; she wiped blood and spit from Tomas’ chin like she’d done it a hundred times before. His heart clenched when he realized she probably had.

“What will you do, Marcus?” she asked, rinsing the rag with a dented water bottle and using it to soothe Tomas’ brow.

“If?”

“You know what I’m asking,” she said, though she did not look at him when she replied.

“I don’t know.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re interested in sending me a prompt of your own, hit me up at possiblydistasteful.tumblr.com.


End file.
